


Epilogue: In the Subjunctive

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the original epilogue to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/774462">Foreign Languages</a>, which you might want to read first for this to make any sense. It explains how Bruce and Clark's relationship began, before they get to the wine cellar at the end of the original story. </p><p>For GwenyWen, BlindJustice12, and Sakuradrops 141, who asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epilogue: In the Subjunctive

The rain-slicked gargoyle on the building's top floor was pouring water like a spigot, and the dark and clouds of a hot early-summer rain swirled over the city. Only winking yellow lights were visible in the city below, blurred by occasional gusts of rain. Batman was crouched on his favorite perch on the gargoyle's back, squinting into the wet fog. A crunch of boots settling on the rooftop behind him: as audible as the exasperated sigh. 

"You know you can't actually fly, right? And that perching thirty floors up on six inches of wet concrete in a windstorm is maybe not the smartest decision?"

"I've got better footing than you," he said, without turning around. "Remarkable what not being able to fly does for your sense of balance. What did you find out?"

"You're not going to like it."

"I rarely do."

"I followed a scientist at the Center for Infectious Diseases. He was meeting with a group of businessmen, in a parking garage five blocks from the CID. They exchanged briefcases. The doctor was nervous, but my sense is he wanted to look more nervous than he really was. He had a lightweight hand-assembly, molded-plastic custom Glock taped to the inside of his thigh."

Bruce turned slightly. "He knew they wouldn't frisk him. Which means he knew one of their security forces, or had inside information."

"I don't think those businessmen got exactly what they were paying for, if I had to guess."

"Mm." Bruce returned to his contemplation of the city below. "Follow-up?"

"Arrow was in position. He shot a tracer to the businessmen's car as they were pulling away, and the scientist's."

"Let me guess which one has since been de-activated."

"I'm afraid so."

Bruce gave another grunt. "Well, at least we know where to find him. I'll see what I can find out about our enterprising scientist. Best case scenario, he's an agent working for the good guys."

"Right," said Clark. "The good guys. Somebody remind me who they are these days."

"Let's keep your pinko leanings out of this."

"Sure. You know that bat symbol is really just a distorted swastika, right?"

"I'll keep it in mind." Bruce leaned forward, squinting into the rain. "Take a look at that alley over there."

Clark leaped up, bent lightly beside him on the gargoyle's back. He trained his keen eyes through the curtains of rain to try to make out—

The slightest of nudges had him floating in the air next to the gargoyle. Clark sighed in exasperation. "For heaven's sake. No one would ever believe me if I told them Batman has the sense of humor of a five-year-old."

"No, they wouldn't," Bruce agreed, straightening. "And speaking of age. Happy Birthday."

The faintest of shadows crossed Clark's face, masked by a perfunctory smile. "Thanks."

"You're not fooling anyone. I know you hate your birthday."

Clark came gently to rest on the building's cornice, but safely out of reach. "It's just that it doesn't feel particularly like my birthday. It's the day my parents found me, and when I was growing up it just felt like the day that made me different from everyone else. Besides, it was in June, and school was always out, so I never got cupcakes during snack time anyway. Summer birthdays are the worst."

"Sorry, no cupcakes. But I do have this." And he tossed him a small object. Clark caught it one-handed.

"An iPod," he said skeptically. "Is this going to be like the time you tried to make me listen to 'real' music? Because, while I like the Nibelungenlied as much as the next person—"

"Just listen to it." Bruce vaulted gracefully off the gargoyle and came to rest on the cornice beside Clark. Flying might not be possible, but the weightlessness his wings afforded made his movements almost as light. "I promise, no Wagner. Think of it as my answer to what you gave me for my birthday."

Clark frowned. "But I didn't—"

"Just listen." He shot out grappling wire to the neighboring building, and had kicked off, soaring out of reach before Clark could say anything else, or piece together exactly what he meant.

* * *

In his apartment back in Metropolis, Clark forgot about the iPod until a few days later. In fairness, he hadn't actually forgotten about it; he had just decided to listen to it when it wouldn't irritate him. It was true he didn't have a degree from Cambridge, and two from the Sorbonne, like some overeducated engineers he knew. But he wasn't actually an idiot, and Bruce's occasional transparent attempts to "educate" him grated on his nerves. Growing up in the middle of nowhere had felt like, well, like growing up in the middle of nowhere, and while he was sure Bruce believed his Saturday afternoons had been spent playing stickball in a corn field, in reality most of them had been spent curled up in the ground floor room of the Smallville Central Library, devouring any book that came within reach of his greedy fingers, anything that could take him somewhere, anywhere but Kansas. He knew more fiction and literature than Bruce, and yes, even more art and music, broadly considered. And everybody skipped Wagner, you couldn't judge someone on that.

But he plugged the thing into his stereo anyway, while he fiddled about in the kitchen with sandwich fixings one night. Bruce would probably say his sandwich was all wrong, too. What is this, grocery store rye bread? With pressed turkey and manufactured cheese product? He could see Bruce's small flicker of incredulity now. He hit play.

" _Dinah Lance, session one, Tuesday March 3rd, time 1:30. Patient Bruce Wayne_ ," said Black Canary's crisp voice, and he stopped chewing his sandwich.

" _This is a very nice office_ ," said the voice Clark knew better than his own.

He dropped his sandwich and hit pause. He did nothing but stare at the counter. "Holy shit, Bruce," he whispered. He wiped his hands of rye bread and unplugged the player. He carried it with him to the living room and dug out some headphones. No way would he take the chance of anyone else hearing this. He sat in his favorite chair and stared out the window, his fingers tapping the slick glass of the little object in his hands. At last he pressed the button again. 

He didn't move from the chair until he had listened to all of it, some parts twice. It took nine hours, but that was all right, he didn't actually need to sleep every night. Dawn was coming up over the river by the time he had finished the last session, and then he just sat in silence. 

The problem with being Kryptonian was, you didn't get to go punch something as hard as you wanted, as many times as you wanted, which was all he wanted to do. Right now, if he went to the Watchtower gym, he would hit something hard enough to knock them out of orbit and into the photosphere of the sun, and that would be before he was even trying. He bent and put his head in his hands and shook with sorrow and rage. He wanted to go find everyone who had ever hurt Bruce and pluck the tendons from their joints as slowly as possible, so he could hear their screams as they choked on their own blood and saliva. And after that, he would get mad.

It had been five days since Bruce had given it to him, and he hadn't asked about it since then. It was clear he never would; it was for Clark to say something about it, or ignore it, if he chose. _My answer to what you gave me_. Clark closed his eyes in shame at the memory. A hasty, ill-considered impulse: Bruce's 40th, the two of them alone in the Batcave, Bruce leaning up against the monitors looking as relaxed as he ever did, his few swallows of beer softening his mouth just that little bit, and Clark hadn't even thought, had just let his lips brush Bruce's in a small, unmistakable invitation—

And in response, Bruce laid himself bare like this. 

Well, in second response, really, since his first had been to hit Clark squarely in the jaw. That look of revulsion Clark would not soon forget. But he'd worked to forget it. He'd worked to tell himself he deserved it. He'd worked to employ some truly Wayne-level repression, as though the whole excruciating incident had never even happened. 

To a degree, he had been successful. He could remember something Bruce had said once, about repression. Clark had made some remark about Artemis Crock and her family, something offhand like he couldn't imagine the amount of therapy that girl was going to require later in life, and Bruce had shrugged. "She seems to be doing okay," he had said.

"By repressing everything," he had responded.

"You say that like it's a bad thing. Did you know that in a psychological study of family members of 9/11 victims, those who said they had not seen a therapist or sought counseling reported the same level of happiness as those who had? And that those who said they talked about their grief on a regular basis actually reported being _more_ unhappy than those who said they never talked about it?"

"I'm just saying, it's not healthy."

"Not everything gets fixed by talking about it over apple pie." 

Clark had let that one go by. When you were Bruce's best friend, you let a lot go by. But over the last few months, he had put Bruce's theories about repression into practice, and found them surprisingly adequate. At first it had required concentration, to be in Bruce's presence and pretend it hadn't happened. Now he didn't have to concentrate at all. He could be around Bruce all the time, and never have to think about that flicker of repugnance, disgust, and something else on Bruce's face that night. 

He hadn't put the pieces together about Tibet, hadn't known specifics, but he had figured out years ago there had to have been something. He had just spent too much time around Bruce, over the years, not to know something must have happened to make him so. . . armored. 

When Clark was in fifth grade, he had begun wearing his coat to school all day long, no matter the weather. Even if it was eighty degrees outside, he would wear his heavy coat. "You're going to give yourself a heat stroke," his mother had said, but he had just said, "I like my coat." He didn't, of course. But what he liked was the protection it gave. Fifth grade was when the other boys began showing off their own muscles, aware of their growing strength and toughness of limb, and "feel my muscles" had been the favorite playground game. And inevitably, the game always ended with a line forming to come feel Clark's muscles, _hey you guys come check this out, hey no pushing I'm next_. Grabbing, squeezing like he was a petting zoo goat. If he wore his coat, no one could touch him, and the circus freak show was over. So yeah, he knew about armor. 

He picked up his phone and shifted it from hand to hand, like he was weighing it, measuring it. When he was satisfied he had it just right, he hit the "B" on his contacts and typed:

 _I know the word too_. 

And he waited. It was seven in the morning, and he knew Bruce had already been for a run, read three newspapers, and checked all scans both in the cave and the Watchtower. Clark had never waited more than thirty seconds for a text reply from Bruce. Except this time. This time it was a full minute and a half, and the text read, _Who is this?_

 _Jerk_ , Clark typed back. _When can I see you?_

Two minutes this time. _I'm not going to be good at this. Please know how not good at this I will be._

Clark wanted to crawl through the satellite transmission and reach him, touch him, wrap his arms around him. And kiss him, oh God kiss him. But years of knowing Bruce had told him that the worst thing he could do right now would be to show up at Bruce's doorstep. _Are you going to hit me again?_ he asked.

_Probably not._

_What about Wagner? Will there be any more Wagner?_

_Only self-inflicted._

Clark smiled. _Then I'm in_ , he typed. And then once more, because he couldn't stop himself: _When can I see you?_

A much longer wait, this time. Time enough for him to pull himself up — even his muscles were going to protest, after nine hours in that chair — and throw some water on his face, get some orange juice, pull on a clean shirt. He stood by the window and looked across the river to Gotham, and saw it in his head:

He would fly over tonight. Late, after Bruce was back from patrol, but early enough that he would still be prowling the cave. He saw himself standing near Bruce, close enough to touch, but not touching. _What are you doing_ , Bruce would say. And Clark would say, _I'm not touching you._

Bruce would turn around at that, and whatever wry remark he was about to make would evaporate at Clark's face. _You tell me what's okay to do_ , Clark would say. _Whatever you want, we'll do that. No surprises, I promise._

Bruce's eyebrow would arch. _I can't have hit you that hard._

And Clark would consider saying, _It wasn't my jaw you suckerpunched_ , but he wouldn't. He would say nothing. He would wait for Bruce to close the distance. Bruce's lips would be firm, but hesitant. Maybe they would stop at the last second, or just as they were touching, to see what Clark was going to do. Clark would do nothing. Bruce would kiss him. They would kiss, and they would kiss. Maybe after a while Bruce would take Clark's hands and put them on his waist and say, _you can touch, it's all right, don't act like I'm going to break._

And Clark would say, _I want I want I want._

_What do you want?_

Clark wouldn't know whether he could say, _I want to come with you, let me come, I'm getting too hard just kissing you._

In the lewdest version of his fantasy, Bruce would say, _Is that so. Show me. Show me how hard._

Clark's fingers would shake just a little, as he pulled his cock out. It would be stiff and red and leaking, leaking all over his fingers. Bruce's eyes would narrow. _Show me what you want_ , he would say, and Clark would stroke himself, would stifle his groan at that first firm sweep of his own fingers. He would fuck his own fist there, while Bruce watched. He would see the bulge in Bruce's pants getting larger, and stiffer. Clark's breathing would be faster. Bruce would be idly rubbing a hand over his own crotch as he watched. Clark would be about to come, on the monitors maybe, his head would be tipping back.

And then Bruce's mouth would be at his ear. Bruce would need to see this, need this exposure on his part, need to see him laid as bare as Bruce had been. _Is this what you think about_ , he would whisper, his voice catching. _Is this what being with me makes you want._

 _Yes yes fucking God yes_ , he would pant. 

_Then come_ , Bruce would moan softly, as turned on as he was by this point, and he would, he would, in glorious long arcing spatters that quavered his spine and shook his knees, beyond shame, beyond anything but needing the release. 

Bruce would make a noise and crush their bodies together. Bruce would push him down onto the floor, Bruce would be grinding on him. Bruce would turn him over and push his pants down the rest of the way and rub at his hole and fuck him hard, enter him half-dry and shaking for it, fuck him brutally right there on the floor of the cave. . .

Yeah, maybe that, not so much. 

Another way: they would be in bed. It would be dark, because Bruce would need the dark. _We can just lie here_ , Clark would say, ignoring the painful pulse of his own cock. Maybe he would be curled up around Bruce, Bruce with his back to him, Clark with his arm across him. Bruce's hand, reaching hesitantly for his. 

_Can I touch you_ , Clark would whisper.

_Yes._

Clark's fingers would close on him. Bruce would give a little intake of breath, would shudder. _Can I get you off?_

_Please._

His grip would brush up and down the long firm silk of Bruce's cock. They wouldn't say anything. Maybe Bruce would let him play with his balls for a minute or so. _Is this all right, does this feel good?_

_Yes. Yes. Please._

When he judged Bruce was far gone enough, he would say some things into his ear, hungry lustful whispers. _This is what I do to myself all the time, while I think about you. Sometimes I think about sucking you._

 _You do._ Bruce's voice would be a strangled groan.

_You make me come hard. You make my fingers wet with it._

And then Bruce would be pumping come, air a strangled hiss through his teeth, hips bucking. Clark would shake with it, wanting his own orgasm so bad. When he was boneless, Bruce would roll over. There would be a shy hand on his own cock. Clark would worry that his come was about to get on Bruce. _We can roll over_ , he would say. _Like I did with you._

 _No_ , Bruce would say. _Let me see_. That would be all it would take, Bruce's voice saying that, and then in the silent dark he would jet come onto Bruce's chest as Bruce's fingers fondled him, stroked him. 

Bruce would fall asleep afterward because for all his study of Krypton he would have omitted to read the treatises about the number of orgasms Kryptonian males usually required to experience abatement of arousal. Maybe he would have to go into the bathroom and bring himself off a few more times. Maybe he would slide back in bed after a while and Bruce would roll over and say, _what the hell happened?_

And Clark would have to say, _um_ , because in the bathroom he would have been trying to keep so quiet and bite back his orgasms so much that he would have crunched the granite of the sink into gravel bits where he gripped it. 

Bruce would look at his sink incredulously the next morning, and he would brace himself on the wall and bend over and shake with laughter, with loud, uninhibited, tears-in-the-eyes laughter, and Clark would pretend to be offended, which would make Bruce laugh harder. It would be the best sound he had ever heard. He would seize Bruce's face and kiss it, and in the laughter and the kissing it would not be wrong if he said _I love you love you love you love_. 

He was startled out of his reverie by the sound of Bruce's ringtone. He almost dropped his orange juice, he had been so far gone in his fantasies. It was like he was still hearing it in his head, Bruce's moans, Bruce's laughter, Bruce's words, realer than real. He was sure nothing would ever sound as wonderful, until he picked up the phone and clicked it. 

"Hi," said Bruce.


End file.
